Hello beloved readers! Any comments, criticism, mistakes, feedback of any kind, really, would be wonderful! Thank you all so much! Please enjoy!

Ivan Braginsky/Russia, and Hetalia itself as a whole, do not belong to me! Credits of this character/series goes to Hidekaz Himaruya.

There is blood and insanity in this fic, so please read at your own discretion, si?

One last thing; I'm sorry if my style throws you off a bit, if you noticed the story seeming to be contradicting itself at times, but I was simply trying to insinuate Ivan's conflicted thoughts inside his head. I also apologize for the very drastic change in theme in the middle! It just seemed like something.. right. I, in no way, wish to make you believe that my only vision of Ivan/Russia is that he is a psychopathic/insane killer! This is simply inspired writing :) (this is also repeated at the end, but c'mon, who actually reads that stuff other than me, right? ;) )

Ivan continued to walk along the long-deserted train tracks. In this vast, never-ending Arctic Hell, he was always alone. He had no one to cherish, no one to make memories with, no one to talk about his dreams with, he was simply alone.

The wind was blowing, cold and harsh against his face, causing his scarf to spiral, twirl, and flap calmly behind him. Ivan was lost in his own thoughts, not really caring where he was going. He thought about the wind. He never really liked the wind much. It was like a child, constantly howling, crying, screaming, unable to be consoled.

He thought about the snow, how it danced with the wind to a never-ending, silent song. How it moved as if it were alive, with a mind of its own. The snow had an abnormal strength to it, how it could come hurling down the side of a mountain, like a wave of endless purity, crashing, destroying, and burying everything in its path; almost like a selfish act to make the world only pure, nothing but an endless white. Yet the snow could also be extremely soft, gentle, and innocent, cascading from ominous grey skies to caress raw cheeks and settle in every strand of hair.

He thought about the cold, effortlessly moving about, biting, scratching, and tearing at every piece of exposed flesh. He thought about the ice and water. They were connected; Being of themselves, but also of the other. The ice and water were both independent, but also relied on one another. If one didn't exist, neither would the other. The ice, a cruel trap, opening below it's victims, plunging them into the paralyzing depths of the black water, who was patiently waiting to crush and drag them down into the darkness to remain forever.

The stars, although beautiful, only stared unblinkingly down at him in pity, providing no consolation. These things were always present in his land, but they were no company. They only came with the loneliness.

He thought about the emptiness, how it embodied him, invading his thoughts at all times. The emptiness in the land around him was consuming every piece of sanity he had left. His mind wouldn't be able to control it much longer. His soul had been poisoned; his heart had gone cold. He didn't know what love was anymore. It's been left as a nostalgic memory of things that used to be. Everyone he'd ever loved before had left him. Left him to be alone. He didn't blame them... Wait, what was he thinking? Of course he blamed them... Right? They were the reason he was like this.. ...Right?

No...

It was all his fault.

Everyone hated him. Everyone was afraid of him. He truly never meant to make it like this.

It was just how things played out.

He was merely a chess piece on a board filled with the opposition, every one of his comrades falling, one by one; leaving, one by one. The enemy was closing in more and more with each passing moment, but the enemy looked him in the face and smirked every time he glanced at a mirror...

All his hands seemed to do was torture and bring pain to the ones he loved. All the blood, oh, that terrifying shade of red... So much blood; spilled by his hands. The crimson stains of the painful memories could never be washed from his hands, forever staining his pale skin. Every time he saw his hands, all he saw was crimson, everywhere, dripping onto the floor... So much blood.. The black leather concealing the skin below at least saved him the sight, but he could still feel it.. It was always there... Despite being so used to the cold, Ivan noticed that he shivered. A lock of his sandy-blonde hair swept in front of his eyes. His hair now seemed dull and lifeless, all of it's luster from the past, faded away in a lost memory.. A sharp flap from his black trench coat awoke him from his thoughts, and his eyes snapped open. Funny, he didn't remember closing them, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

His senses had fully awoken to realize that darkness was creeping in, a cloudless night. He looked up to gaze at the few stars currently visible, their reflection in his dark violet eyes, once so bright, now the colour seemed dull. He didn't know exactly what time it was, or where he was, nor did he even feel any urge to return..

Return where? He didn't belong there. There was no "home" for him.

His deep breaths slowly streaming from his slightly-open mouth in clouds, his fists subconsciously clenched. His eyelids slipped down over the dull violet once again, and he let himself sink into the silent darkness. It seemed like an eternity that he'd been standing there, suspended in the darkness, letting the world around him slip through his fingers and fade away. When he opened his eyes again, the endless sky above him was pitch black, with billions of stars painted intricately across it.

He saw a paper-thin sliver of the moon. It looked like if the wind blew too hard, it would just fly away, never to be seen again. Ivan wished he could do that; Just let himself be swept away by the wind to disappear forever. But the thought was pushed to the back of his mind when he suddenly remembered something. His hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly-crumpled, but still beautiful small sunflower. He stared at it, almost fondly, simply taking in the brightness and warmth that emanated from it.

A single tear trickled from his eye, and slowly slid down his face, his eyes filled with sorrow and longing. A few petals were pulled from the fragile flower, and Ivan stood there, watching them flutter gracefully like butterfly wings. Suddenly, the wind picked up from behind him, and the flower was torn from his gentle grip. He wanted to lunge out and grab it, but his body wouldn't let him. He was forced to simply stand there and watch helplessly as the wind carried his little symbol of hope farther and farther away from him. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the beautiful, ever glowing yellow of the flower's petals as it glided on the wind. His hand still out-stretched, reaching for something he knew he'd never see again. He was unable to speak, but his eyes were screaming, begging for the flower to return.

CRACK

It seemed to echo through the silent black as another shatter appeared in his already-fragile mind. He was broken. The cracks in his sanity had been building up, and in the painful silence, you could almost hear it finally shattering, like releasing a beast from centuries of confinement, crazed from solitude. He dropped to his knees, hands falling numbly to his sides in surrender, simply giving in to the desperation of insanity that been threatening to take over for so long. The wind whispered barely audible, torturing truths in his ears, yet they resounded against the walls of his mind, reminding him of his mistakes, his sins, all the people he'd hurt and pushed away, things he wished he could forget. But the wind remembered. The wind wouldn't let him forget. His name was being repeated slowly and softly in his head, but it got faster; And louder. The letters of his name being changed and warped.

Ivan. Ivan. Ivan Ivan IvanIvanIvanIVAN..MONSTERMONSTERMONSTER

He clasped his hands over his ears, desperately trying to drown out the noise, begging for this torture to end. But something else in his mind was asking him: "What was the difference?". He was a monster. More tears streamed from underneath his tightly shut eyelids, down his face at the burning truth he so desperately wished to deny. His facial expression had become warped to reveal the many emotions running through his body, straight through his very core; brow crumpled tightly in his strain to keep the emotions from taking over.

Inside his mind, something snapped. Ivan's still-wet eyes glazed over, becoming almost unknowing, filled with so many emotions: Sadness, Loneliness, Anger, Longing, Desperation. But in the centre of it all was a flame of an all-too-familiar blood lust and insanity. He stood up, stumbling slightly, as if in a drunken stupor, with his head hanging low, and eyes wide, but quickly regained his balance, and lifted his head slowly, his expression blank.

He stared at the endless white in front of him, the moon casting a strange glow on what, to most, would be considered a beautiful, untouched masterpiece of nature, but Ivan knew better. The land beneath the façade of snow was a land where many bloody wars were fought. Ivan had seen it all, felt it all, smelt the courage, the bravery, but those were overpowered by the constant fear, anger, and frustration, known the pain and sorrow, every last detail was etched permanently into his mind. So much blood...

He blinked, and the sight that came to his vision after that split second of darkness made his eyes widen even more in horror and disbelief. The snow had turned red, soaked with blood, the stars shone brighter than he'd ever seen, with a gentle glow turned sickeningly sinister. He felt a strange wetness fall onto his left cheek, and he reached up to see what had dropped down, but when he pulled his hand away, his gloved fingertips were slippery and coated with a dull red...

His head snapped upwards, and what he saw almost horrified him. The moon directly above him had lost its previous frailness and innocence, and was replaced with a malicious aura, as if the sliver had turned into a deadly blade. The tip was dripping crimson down from the sky, onto his cheek, hair, and coat, like a twisted version of rain.

His hands reached up to his eyes, forcing them closed, and continued to claw at them, as if trying to rip them from their sockets to erase the vision from his memory. He stood there, trembling in a mixture of fear and anger, willing the scene that still danced across the blackness behind his eyelids to go away.

go away go away go away

His shoulders and muscles slowly relaxed, his jaw loosened, and his fingers uncurled from the tight fist they'd previously been in, and removed from his face to fall numbly to his sides once again. He opened his eyes, and nearly collapsed from relief when the snow had regained its stark whiteness, the stars had returned to their original pitying stare, and the moon had lost it's malicious aura to be replaced with it's innocence and fragility.

His jaw was stiff from being clenched so tightly, his breathing came shallow and ragged. Clearing the image from his head, suppressing the memory subconsciously to the darkest corners of his mind, wrapped in a pretty little box, nearly bursting at the seams from all the strain of the years passed that he wished he could forget, but yet there they remained, with their little crimson bows (oh, how he LOATHED the colour red), and there they remained, constantly reminding him that they were there, and would never go away.

What is Insanity?

"A relatively permanent disorder of the mind"

"RELATIVELY permanent"

Is there such a thing?

Oh, the voices were back.

He stared at the endless canvas of white before him, but not really seeing it. He was trying to listen. Trying to hear the whispers resonating throughout his mind. They echoed so loudly, yet he could never hear them.

Then Ivan felt a cold sensation on the tip of his nose, but it disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. He looked closely at the sky and realized that it had begun to snow. He remained planted in the same spot, and the snow quickly made his footsteps disappear, erasing any evidence of his existence there.

His face twisted into a feral snarl, his eyes remaining wide and unknowing. He felt so cold.

Why was it so cold?

He knew the voices knew the answer, but they would never tell him.

secrets secrets secrets secrets

Everyone has secrets.

Locked in a cage in the back of his mind sits Ivan. He is his own prisoner, his darkest side has taken over. There is nothing he can do anymore. When did this all start? He's not even sure. He's had so much time to think, being alone for so long. He never wanted this. The insanity of solitude and longing has grown and grown until it consumes every part of him, and then he has no control. It's as if he falls asleep, a deep, dreamless, black slumber; then when he wakes up, everything is painted with crimson, glass, broken, mangled, shattered, destroyed, ripped, shredded, gone. And then he cries. His sorrows, his pain, his weakness; he cries. He can't control it, therefore he is weak. Useless, unable to be anything but alone and broken.

So he cries.

It felt as if his heart had stopped beating. It was so cold. He should die. But he couldn't, a voice, albeit small and whispering, told him from the back of his mind, he was so scared. Scared to die. No, he tells himself, not anymore. He is not afraid anymore. Afraid means WEAK.

HE IS NOT WEAK.

Living is his punishment for the things he'd done. No, he wasn't alive. He had died a long time ago. His body was like an empty vessel now, overcome by insanity. He did not have control. He was so weak...

So cold..

He pulled out the sharpened blade of his knife from his coat, shining and glinting in the ghostly glow of the moon. Pinching the handle of the blade with his thumb and forefinger, he dangled it in front of his face, staring at his reflection, staring his enemy right in the eyes; challenging, testing, sensing his weakness and thriving off of it.

He moved his focus to the blade again, and a sadistic, childish grin spread over his face. Not a single nick, scratch, or imperfection of any kind marred the silver of the blade. It was perfect.

Blink.

The world of red had come back.

The blade was soaked to the hilt and dripping with crimson.

His smile widened until it looked as if his face would rip in half, his eyes gleaming with a sinister desperation and blood lust, a trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth, he watched it's slow trek down his face, admiring it's grace and beauty in the small reflection in his blade.

Blink.

The blade returned to it's original silver perfection; the world was white once more.

Something that vaguely resembled laughter escaped his throat, gurgling from his mouth like sludge, and burning his ears like acid. The blade was plunged into his stomach. He removed it, laughing a bit louder as it plunged in again. He stabbed and stabbed, again and again; laughing louder, and louder.

But he could still hear the voices whispering.

When will it stop snowing?

He didn't feel any pain. Why not? He needed to be punished.. He deserved pain.

HE DESERVED IT BECAUSE HE WAS WEAK AND USELESS AND A MONSTER AND HE COULDN'T CONTROL IT HELP HELP HELP PLEASE

So he cried. He cried out all his pain and misery and weakness.

With every tear that fell, the insanity drained from his eyes.

His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the earth from pain and exhaustion.

He was free.

And as he lay there on his back in the snow, finally feeling warm and happy.

He imagined becoming one of those stars, beautiful yet unreachable;

Or maybe he'd become a snowflake, so tiny and insignificant, but loved, nonetheless.

The snow around him was slowly being dyed a deep crimson, and he couldn't be happier.

It was like all his pain, secrets, and memories were seeping from his wounds to be melted away in the snow forever.

Everything was quiet.

There was just him, the snow, and the crimson that he once hated so much, that used to haunt him, but he didn't have to worry about that anymore.

He felt so happy. And warm.

He'd never felt so warm before. He would sit closer to the fire on cold nights, but no fire could ever melt the icy barrier he had subconsciously built around his heart to keep others out and to keep his emotions and insanity in.

But now he felt as if he himself was the fire, a new flame ignited that burned and burned until every fibre of his being was pure fire, instantly melting the seemingly indestructible ice that had encased himself for so long.

Breathe in.

He could fell his muscles, tense from the strain of his past, relax.

Breathe out.

All the memories that had haunted him seemed to dissolve before his eyes.

Breathe in.

Everything was shifting in and out of focus peacefully, but his mind felt so clear now. The clouds of his thoughts were parting.

Breathe out.

His eyelids were becoming heavy. He felt so tired, but he wanted this feeling to last forever.

Breathe in.

Tears escaped from underneath his now-closed eyelids. But now he realized they were not of fear, hatred, sadness, or grief.

They were of something much more foreign.

Happiness.

Breathe out.

"At last"

Wow, did that take far too long. I'm sorry for the delay! This is my first finished, and published piece, so exciting! I hope you enjoyed :)
Criticism, comments, inquiries, feedback, anything would be very appreciated! I'm sorry if my style throws you off a bit, if you noticed the story seeming to be contradicting itself at times, but I was simply trying to insinuate Ivan's conflicted thoughts inside his head. I also apologize for the very drastic change in theme in the middle! It just seemed like something.. right. I, in no way, wish to make you believe that my only vision of Ivan/Russia is that he is a psychopathic/insane killer! This is simply inspired writing :)